


One More

by Cali_se



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:31:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cali_se/pseuds/Cali_se
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> It had been pouring with rain all day, large drops coming down like bullets, ricocheting off the pavement...</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-Reichenbach. Contains spoilers for that episode (The Reichenbach Fall)
> 
> There is now a [Part 2](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1391428.html#cutid1)

It had been pouring with rain all day, large drops coming down like bullets, ricocheting off the pavement. John had inevitably got himself caught in it. Missing his bus, and not able to grab a taxi, he’d had to walk the mile home from the supermarket. And he’d forgotten to take an umbrella, as usual. 

He shuddered in his thin jacket as he put the shopping away, then grabbed a towel and dried off his hair as he went to the bedroom to change his trousers. He took a quick look at his reflection in the mirror, noticing for the umpteenth time that week how tired he looked. (Nights spent wide awake tended to do that to people.) And then he realised just how very exhausted he was.

He lay down on the bed to rest for just a few moments, but his weary body had other ideas. The light coming through the window as he fell asleep was the half light of early evening. When he woke up it was dark.

He wasn’t exactly sure what woke him. Or exactly how long he’d been asleep. A quick glance at his bedside clock took care of the latter. The need to discover an answer to the former would require him to get up. Looking through a gap in the curtain, he could see movement in the back garden. Someone was there. A clammy chill ran through him. His nearest neighbour was a quarter of a mile away, and he doubted they’d drop by to borrow a pint of milk. And there was no gate at the back of the house, just a fence which whoever it was would have had to climb over in order to gain entry. The side gate that lead from the front of the house was locked, he was sure of it. For the first time since leaving Baker Street, John prepared to curl his fingers round the handle of a pistol. He took out the gun which he kept locked away in the bottom drawer of his bedside cabinet, crept downstairs, put on his jacket and grabbed the torch from the kitchen shelf.

As he opened the back door, slowly and carefully, some movement off to the right caught his eye. He shivered as he stood there, listening to the wind in the fir trees and the patter of rain on the roof. It was all too familiar, this watching and waiting, but he was alone now, with no one to share the burden. 

Another movement behind one of the trees caused something like panic to stab at John’s heart. It was a definite figure. He shone his torch in its direction and made ready to defend himself, but it moved again. John flinched. 

“Stay there,” he called, and it sounded like a military command even to his own ears. “Stay right where you are. Don’t come any closer.” 

Another small flurry of activity occurred then, rustling the bushes. John took a step back. “St-stay where you are!” 

“John.” The voice travelled across the garden towards John as a harsh whisper. John remained rooted to the spot, letting his torch do the searching until it finally picked out its source. 

And then, quite suddenly, the world stood still. 

“Oh god.” John stepped back again, coming abruptly into contact with the wall as he did so.

_It_

_Can’t_

_Be…_

“Wh-- ” John tried to speak, form some kind of sentence, but he could only stare. 

A voice somewhere nearby was speaking instead. John knew the voice well. He knew it to be Sherlock’s. But Sherlock was dead. He’d seen him die. 

And still the figure before him spoke: “I realise this must be a huge shock for you, John, but would you lower your gun before you do one of us some damage?”

John continued to stare in disbelief, lowering his gun to his side, then he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. 

A gloved hand touched his arm. “Shall we go inside? Out of the rain?”

John snapped his eyes open, flinching at the contact as though he’d been burnt. “No,” he said, his voice slow and steady. “I’m going to go back into my house. You do what you like.”

The very moment he said it, he longed to take it back. Once the door was shut, holding back the night, he slid to the floor, still grasping the gun in one hand and the torch in the other. 

“Oh god," he breathed, a huge wave of emotion surging in his breast. _“Sherlock.”_

He closed his eyes and tried to take a breath. He tasted bitter acid in his throat, thought he might be sick. But he wasn’t. It passed. He got himself to his feet and grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen, drinking it down in short manageable gulps, propping himself up against the sink. 

The back door rattled, making him jump. 

“John. Will you please let me in?”

John tried to reply but his throat was constricting too much to allow him to form coherent words.

It was silent for a while then; John could vaguely make out the familiar silhouette of his friend the ghost through the frosted glass panel in the door. 

Then that same ghost spoke again, and, again, its voice sounded so alive that John almost believed it to be of this world. “It was a mistake to come here. I realise that. I thought-- I’m sorry. I’ll leave you in peace. Goodbye, John.”

The shadow lingered before drifting away.

 _No._ Panic stabbed at John’s heart once again and he raced to open the door. “Sherlock!”

But the garden was empty.

 _Christ. Please._ John sighed, sliding to his knees. “Not again.”

***

Food held no thrill for John that night, but he forced himself to eat. He’d never fared well running on empty. He sat on the sofa in front of the TV and perched a plate on his lap, an easy meal of baked beans on toast. The screen flickered before his eyes, blurring with the rush of his mind. 

A while later he ran a bath, then lay soaking in it for half an hour with the radio on, his eyes closed. But no amount of talk radio could stop his ears from hearing that voice, and the inside of his eyelids were imprinted with the image of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock had come to find him -- a miracle had actually happened -- and he’d turned him away. 

Suddenly, he had an idea. Or rather, he recognised what the most obvious course of action should be. He’d kept Sherlock’s mobile number, even though he’d seen him throw his phone away. He'd almost come to terms with the fact that the phone was probably lost -- had not had the heart to try the number, fearful of who might answer. But he hadn’t wanted to get rid of it. It was a part of the time he and Sherlock had spent together. It was part of Sherlock. He got out of the bath and wrapped himself up in his bathrobe. 

As he went downstairs to get his phone, he found it was beeping, as if on cue. It was a text. Two actually. His hand shook slightly as he reached for it. The first one simply said: _Call if convenient._

It was from an unknown number. 

But it was signed SH.

The second, sent five minutes after the first, said: _Please John._

John took a deep breath and carefully placed the phone down, then he backed away from it as though it were an unexploded bomb. He poured himself a drink, waiting for the third text to arrive. It didn't materialise, and when he picked up the phone again his hand had stopped shaking. He read the messages again, just to be sure they were real.

And then he dialled.

***

Around an hour later, for the second time that night, Sherlock Holmes arrived at Doctor John Watson's address. But this time he was expected; and he used the front doorbell.

The air was cool and a light pitter patter of rain still fell upon the leaves of the poplars. Sherlock stood with them, tall and lean and large as life against the night sky. It took a few moments for John to let him in, and the hallway seemed too small for him as he stepped inside; John felt hot beneath his clothes despite the chilly air that followed them in to the house. 

"Sit down," he said. "I'll make us some tea. Or would you like something else? I've got some whiskey. Or would you prefer coffee?"

"Tea will be fine. Thank you."

Once in the kitchen, John pressed his head into his hands and closed his eyes. The first jolt of shock had long passed, but now a storm of emotions raged in its stead: confusion, anger, concern, desire, love; all of the emotions that only Sherlock had the power to stir in him. He had added grief to that list. Grief and pain. And now here was a miracle to top things off. He'd asked for it, at the graveside, and now it was here.

_One more miracle, Sherlock, for me..._

They sat in silence while John poured out the tea. A kind of calm awkwardness descended that didn't quite fit. John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, watching him as he tried to act normally, appearing outwardly calm, torn between a fading urge to punch him and a growing desire to grab him and hug him.

"It's good to see you, John," Sherlock said. 

John cleared his throat; that stubborn lump was back, causing the words to stick there again. He took a swig of tea. Still a little too hot, it burned as it went down. He wrapped his hands around his cup, swirling the liquid inside it into tiny whirlpools. "So... where have you been all this time?" he asked at last. "Were you hiding out somewhere, or... what?"

"In a way, yes."

"Sherlock... Is someone after you?"

"No. I wouldn't have come here if that were the case."

"That's... thoughtful."

"You look tired."

"I haven't been sleeping very well." John took a deep breath, found the tightness in his chest had returned. He took another sip of tea -- cooler now, it soothed him. "It's the understatement of the century to say I'm relieved to see you," he continued. "Bloody confused, but relieved. You have to understand though," he cleared his throat again, "how hard it's been. I saw you fall. You were lying on the ground, Sherlock. It was you. I saw your face, _your_ blood. I was sure--”

“I know.”

"I don’t think you do know, Sherlock. Have you given a moment’s thought to how all this would affect me, and Mrs Hudson? Molly? The _ordinary_ people you left behind?”

“You aren’t ordinary, John. Far from it. And yes, I have.”

John let out a long sigh, then sat up straight in his seat. Nursing his tea in both hands, he looked out at the darkness of the garden through the open curtains. 

"It was raining like this the day I told my therapist that you'd died. She knew already, of course, but she made me say it out loud, to make it real I suppose. And I did, all the time wondering how it could possibly be raining, how the world could still be turning without you in it."

Sherlock didn't reply, just took his tea and drank it down in a few short gulps. Sadness lurked in his eyes. John saw it, recognised it, and turned away, aware that a strong need and an embedded instinct were growing stronger with each passing moment: the instinct that drew them one to the other, and the desperate need to be drawn. He tried to ignore it, retained his resolve, steadfastly keeping up his wall of defence, concentrating instead on his own hands sitting around the cup in his lap, watching his fingers lace and unlace there. They didn’t seem to belong to him somehow.

“It's taken a long time, that's all I'm saying, and the grieving process hasn't even ended yet. I saw you dead. There's an _actual_ gravestone. I visited it. I took flowers. I wept for you there... I’ve been grieving all these months… piecing myself -- my life -- back together. I've seen some things in my time, you know that, things I will never forget let alone come to terms with, but you were my _best friend_ , my very best... and, god alone knows why, but I’ve missed you. Every single day."

"You don’t know what it took to do what I did, John; what it meant to leave.”

“Then will you tell me? For god's sake, trust me. I _believed_ in you, Sherlock, even when you said all those ridiculous things to me on the roof. I believed in you.”

"Did you?"

"Yes."

"And now? Do you believe in me now?"

"Should I?"

"Yes." 

"Okay, then, yes. I believe in you."

"Good," Sherlock said. "Then you'll believe what I'm about to tell you, and know it's the absolute truth. And you won't ask me for one word more in explanation than I can give."

"Okay."

"This may be hard for you to take in."

"Try me."

"All right... I did it to save you."

"What?"

"Mrs Hudson too, and Lestrade."

"Lestrade? I- I don’t understand."

"Our friendly neighbourhood assassins, John. Instructed to kill you if I wasn’t seen to jump to my death."

"Oh my God."

"I had to make it look utterly convincing, utterly believable, and I'm sure you'll vouch for me when I say I achieved that. And I'm sure you'll realise why I had to stay away all this time, why I had to choose my moment to return. I had to be sure that certain... matters had been dealt with."

"Was Mycroft involved in any of this? In your resettlement plan?" 

"I really can't say anything about that, John. For now. But you understand what I'm saying? It was a necessary act, a necessary act to save your life. To save Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. It was all part of the game."

"You knew, didn't you? What Moriarty was planning up there? You knew--"

"John--"

"And those tears as you said your goodbyes?" John continued, his voice now breaking as he took in the implications of Sherlock's confession. "Were they all part of the game too?"

"Do you think so?"

"No. They couldn't have been..."

"I still knew I would have to leave you."

"But why leave me thinking you were dead? You could've called me, sent me a text. Any time. Or written. You know my email address. I wouldn't have told a soul, you know that."

"It wasn't safe."

"Is it safe now?"

"Yes. As safe as it ever was."

"Have you been back to Baker Street?" 

“Yes. All my things are in boxes.”

“Not everything. I have... I have your violin and… a few… other things.”

A faint flicker of a smile danced across Sherlock’s lips. “And Mrs Hudson has a student."

"Why hasn't she been in touch yet? She's got my number."

"I asked her to wait, just for a few days." 

"How did she take it? You turning up like that?"

"She was... fine. Eventually." Sherlock patted the seat beside him. "Come here, John."

In spite of an insistent, niggling fear that Sherlock would vanish like a mirage as soon as he approached him, John went to him without hesitation. He breathed him in as he reached his side, the unfamiliar aroma of hotel soap mixed with a familiar cologne, and let his eyes roam across the slender frame, then up into the ruffled curls of his hair -- still damp from the rain -- and down again to the fullness of his lips. It was still the same Sherlock, yes, and yet... Something new was in the room with them. A confession? A realisation? 

"Take my hand."

"Sherlock..."

"Take my hand."

“And what happens if I do that?”

“Take it. Please.”

When at last their palms touched, and they really did _touch_ , the feel of Sherlock's warm, living flesh broke the final fragile thread that was holding John's emotions together, as he knew it would. He reached up with his free hand and solemnly patted Sherlock’s jacket lapel, then let himself fall against the other man’s solid form and allowed the tears he'd been holding back to come. Arms wrapped themselves around him then, holding him while he wept. Now and then he felt Sherlock’s fingers moving against his back as he held him, and once he heard his voice, soft in to his hair. Just one word, _John_ , reminding him yet again of just how much he’d missed hearing his name on those lips. Lips that soon settled in his hair, nuzzling softly. Then it turned into a kiss, placed carefully against John’s head, breathing new life into him from the top down. 

Eventually, much to his relief, the tears subsided and John gradually came back to himself. He sniffed back remaining tears and a threatening stream of snot that had started to run from his nose, and cursed himself for losing control. Then he eased himself up to meet Sherlock’s gaze. Dazzling, feline eyes looked back at him, scrutinising him as they always did, delving deep. Warmth crept around the edges as John stared back, his heart pounding beneath clammy skin. 

The kiss that followed was almost chaste in its sweetness, just a gentle touching of lips, but it lit a spark that neither man could ignore. 

When Sherlock stroked John's cheek, the intimate gesture touched John deeply, as did the words that followed: "May I stay with you tonight?"

John didn't hesitate in his reply. "Yes, please."

They kissed again, another brief meeting of mouths promising more as they held each other tight.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked. 

John nodded, and realised it wasn't a lie. He actually was okay. Almost totally calm, with contentment as a distinct possibility. He’d wanted Sherlock to explain himself, tell him where he'd been and how the hell he'd fallen from that roof and walked away, imagined himself demanding to know how he had accomplished the one thing he'd been longing for all these months ( _one more miracle_ ); but as he sat there, in the arms of his friend, it was enough to know what he already knew -- that Sherlock had done it for him, that he was alive; that he wanted to stay, whatever that would bring. Suddenly explanations didn’t matter quite so much. They had waited now for many long months. They could wait one more night.

[Part 2](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1391428.html#cutid1)


End file.
